


Let's Make a Deal (cut from the full version)

by I_am_lampy



Series: The "It's All Fine" Collected Works Deluxe Edition [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, Flirting, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Nosy Sherlock, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 12:32:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11646633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: "Let's make a deal," John says, the words causing the hair on the back of Sherlock's neck to lift. "For every smoothie you drink, I'll answer one question about Gerald and me, no matter how personal."





	Let's Make a Deal (cut from the full version)

**Friday, 22 March 2013**

Sherlock doesn't get to meet Gerald when he comes over to drop off the bags of shopping (and something called a "Magic Bullet"). Instead, John gets a text, mumbles something about helping Gerald and then disappears through the flat door. Sherlock hears him thumping down the stairs and barely five minutes later, Sherlock can hear John's feet on the stairs again, weighed down this time. When he comes through the flat door, he's burdened with five carrier bags and a box under his arm holding something called a NutriBullet Pro. Sherlock contemplates offering to help, then realizes it's pointless—John will just tell him not to get up.

Sherlock raises his voice to be heard over the swishing sounds and muffled thumps of plastic bags being emptied and the contents relocated to the cabinets. "Why didn't you bring Gerald up with you?" he asks.

John's industriousness in the kitchen goes quiet. "I didn't think you would want to meet him," John calls out and then resumes his chore.

"Of course, I want to meet him! I need to size up the competition," Sherlock says. "What does Gerald do?"

"He's a therapist," John shouts (to be heard over his banging).

"You've managed to stay interested in a _therapist_ for an entire year? John, therapists are _safe_ ," Sherlock says as though this whole time John has just needed Sherlock to come along and straighten him out on this issue. "You don't do _safe_."

John pokes his head over his chair. "You want a sandwich to go with your smoothie?" he asks Sherlock.

Sherlock makes a flicking motion with his hand; a gesture Sherlock knows John will interpret to mean _I'm thinking, go away_. Sherlock looks over at the desk and sees the new phone Mycroft gave him. He snags it and types out a text to Mycroft.

_I have a favor to ask. –SH_

_Anything. –MH_

_I assume you put together a file on this Gerald person? –SH_

_I did. I'm assuming you want a copy. Is an electronic file acceptable? –MH_

_Send it to my phone. –SH_

_Sending now. –MH_

_This stays between us. –SH_

_Of course, little brother. –MH_

~*~

After John is done putting everything away, he breaks out the NutriBullet. Sherlock watches in mounting horror as John dumps things like _phytoplankton powder_ and _hemp seeds_ into the blender.

"I'm not drinking that," Sherlock declares from his chair at the kitchen table.

"Yes, you are," John counters, without looking at him.

"It's green!"

"It's full of calories, protein, fat, vitamins, nutrients—it's the fastest way to help you gain healthy weight."

"I'm not so undernourished that I need to be given _phytoplankton powder_ —how is that even a _thing_?" Sherlock whinges.

John ignores him and presses the start button and throws Sherlock a challenging grin while the blender drowns out Sherlock's voice. He pours the finished product in a tall glass, plonks it on the table in front of Sherlock and then drops a straw into it. He points at the straw and then at Sherlock.

 "Drink."

"No, thank you."

_"Drink."_

"Or what?" Sherlock asks defiantly, raising his eyebrow.

John's eyes narrow and then light up in a way that gives Sherlock goose bumps. "If you drink all of it, I'll give you a chocolate biscuit."

"Two chocolate biscuits," Sherlock says with narrowed eyes.

"Two chocolate biscuits _if_ you drink the whole thing," John counters, his eyes also narrowed.

Sherlock grins. "Done."

The smoothie is not that bad. Fruity with a hint of vanilla and plenty of honey. A slightly granular texture. Mostly it just _looks_ bad.

"Well?" John asks.

"Acceptable, but I think three a day is excessive. I do have working teeth and have been known to eat solid foods on occasion."

John turns back to the worktop, where the boxes of Sherlock's prescriptions are stored in a mini plastic crate. He pulls out Sherlock's antibiotics, the dihydrocodeineone, and a bottle of gummy vitamins. Sherlock rolls his eyes when he sees them.

John is quiet, at first, methodically pushing pills through the foil backs of the blister packs, and dropping them into a paper cup on the worktop. When he does speak, it's with a voice tense with emotion.

"I don't have some deep-seated need to fix you up because I'm a doctor. I _want_ to do it because you're the person I love mo—" John clears his throat before continuing. "I care very deeply for you, Sherlock. No matter where you are, if you're injured or in need of care, then I'll always _want_ to be there; I'll always _want_ to be the one who fixes you up."

Sherlock finds that his throat has closed up with emotion. His nose is suddenly congested and his tear ducts are points of sharp pain as they convulse abruptly and flood his eyes with moisture. He squeezes his eyes shut and breaths in deeply, using the hem of his dressing gown to wipe the tears off his face.

Thus composed, he opens his eyes. "Of course, John," Sherlock says quietly. "I'm grateful for your help."

John's shoulders relax slightly. He reaches up to fetch a glass out of the cabinet and fills it with water before putting both the water and paper cup of pills on the table in front of Sherlock. He turns away again to riffle through his med kit, but Sherlock gently grasps his elbow and John, surprised, turns towards him.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock murmurs.

John's smile is tentative and slightly crooked, and Sherlock must fight the urge to pull John onto his lap and kiss his smiling lips.

"Yeah, of course," John says and lets out a relieved sigh.

Sherlock finishes his smoothie, and then, in a show of trust, retrieves the fat file from the embassy detailing his injuries (photos included, though he wants to throw them away) and hands it wordlessly to John. John takes it with a look bordering on supplication in his eyes and then blinks, nods, and tentatively takes it.

Then, abruptly, he shoves it back at Sherlock. "Just put it in with your things and if I have a question, you can give me the bits I need to answer it."

For the second time in less than an hour, Sherlock's throat feels like closing.

"All right," he says and goes into the bedroom to put it back in his duffle bag.

"Let's get some of those stitches out, yeah?" John asks, pulling his kit towards him on the table. "Sit sideways in this chair and I'll be able to see better."

Sherlock shrugs out of his dressing gown and then sits as requested on one of the wooden chairs. He crosses his arms on the table and lays his head on them, his back bowed. John sets a small metal bowl near Sherlock's head. With a hemostat and scissors in hand, he bends over Sherlock's back and starts at the top, working his way down.

"You can have a shower after this," John murmurs, his face close to Sherlock's as he pulls out a few stitches about six inches below the nape of Sherlock's neck.

"Oh, _god_ , that sounds wonderful," Sherlock moans.

"I'm sure it does. I'd want a shower, too, if I'd had nothing but sponge baths for a week."

Sherlock, because it would be criminal not to, grabs onto the opportunity for innuendo. "If you were the one administering the sponge baths, I might feel differently," he purrs.

"Steady on, Sherlock," John says, exasperated, but affectionate. "None of that."

"I believe I said _no sex_. Flirting is still on the table. Speaking of the _table_ ," Sherlock says in an undertone.

"What's that?" John mutters, not paying close attention to what Sherlock is saying, as he tries to remove the more delicate stitches he's working on.

"I could take you right here, over this table, and every time I worked on an experiment here, I would remember how you looked with my co—"

"Jesus _Christ_ , Sherlock!"

Sherlock's innuendo is rewarded (or punished, depending on how it's looked at) by John's hand jerking the hemostat before he's had a chance to snip the nylon stitch, so it pulls painfully on Sherlock's skin. He grunts at the sharp sting, and John mumbles something about Sherlock deserving it, but Sherlock isn't deterred at all.

"Are you thinking about me bending you over this table? Because _I'm_ thinking about it," Sherlock says, undeterred.

"Well, _stop_ thinking about it."

"Fine," Sherlock says, perfectly willing to _table_ the discussion, so to speak. He uses the opportunity to ask questions instead. "Where did you meet Gerald?"

"We're not talking about Gerald right now," John says, pulling another stitch out and dropping it into the metal bowl on the table next to him. It makes a _plink_ sound.

"I'm just curious," Sherlock says, thinking of the file hidden away on his phone.

"I know you're _just_ curious," John says. "And I'm telling you to _just_ mind your own business."

"Why, are you embarrassed?"

"No, of course not!"

"Well, then, tell me about him."

"Fine," John grumbles. He sounds put upon, but underneath there's an air of something expectant. Now, Sherlock is even _more_ curious.

"So where did you meet?"

"Euston Tap."

Another tug on his back and another stitch dropped into the metal bowl. _Plink_.

"When?"

"March of last year."

 _Snick_. A tug. _Plink_.

"When did you have your first date?"

 _Snick._ A tug. _Plink._

"Depends on what you mean by date," John mutters, his voice low and rough.

Something shivery flits through Sherlock's body, settling in his groin. His fingers itch to explore John's skin.

"So, he chatted you up?"

"I think we chatted each other up to be honest," John says.

 _Snick._ A tug. _Plink_.

"Did you kiss him first or the other way around?"

"I can't really remember. I know he _tried_ to kiss me, but I think I panicked because I'd never kissed a bloke before."

"Then what happened?"

"Then, we made some supper, drank a bottle of wine, and went to bed together."

There's a smugness that permeates John's words, and it puts Sherlock on edge. He doesn't understand why it's there, and he _especially_ doesn't understand why John is being so forthcoming.

"How long after you met him did you engage in penetrative sex?"

"Let me think." John pulls his lips in over his teeth before rubbing them together and letting them go. John's tongue and lips have a closer acquaintance with each other than do most people's. John's dusky pink tongue hovers right at the corner of his mouth for several seconds before he answers Sherlock's question. The fact that he answers at _all_ is astonishing.

"Two months," John says.

Sherlock watches the wet tip of John's tongue dart out and lave his bottom lip before slipping back into his mouth.

"You bottomed, I assume?" Sherlock asks.

He's quite pleased when John looks at him in surprise, his mouth opening to ask the question. _How did you—?_ Then he snaps his mouth shut and rolls his eyes before resuming his task.

 _Snick_. A tug. _Plink_.

"Did you honestly think I didn't know? Dr. I'm-Not-Gay Watson is a born bottom. Do you ever top?"

"Yes," John says, the word leaving his mouth reluctantly.

"Which do you prefer?"

"Are you asking me to satisfy your curiosity, or do you just enjoy embarrassing me?" John asks, stepping back to look at Sherlock, the hemostat in his right hand and the scissors in his left.

"Well, both, but I'm also asking for future reference," Sherlock says.

He makes sure John is watching him before he lets heat gather in his eyes as they roam up and down John's body. John's face flushes along the apples of his cheeks, up his temples and over his forehead. His ears turn red and Sherlock works hard to suppress his grin. John looks away, his dusky pink tongue sliding along his bottom lip, before he smiles and shakes his head.

"You are a horrible flirt, you do know that, right? Absolute _shit_ at flirting."

"I seem to be doing an admirable job with you," Sherlock says, lifting his head off his arms, allowing his grin to break free.

"This isn't _flirting_ , Sherlock. This is an _interrogation._ "

"Like I said, _I'm_ flirting."

John shakes his head one last time, still smiling, before pushing Sherlock's head back down on his forearms.

"You're mad," John says, but his voice is warm and blooming with affection.

He gets back to work. _Snick_. A tug. _Plink_.

"You never answered my question," Sherlock prompts after about thirty seconds of silence.

"What question?" John murmurs.

 _Snick_. A tug.

"Do you prefer to top or bottom?"

 _Plink_.

"I like both, but I tend to bottom," John says.

A sense of unreality is pervading Sherlock's mind. Eighteen months ago, he and John would've shied away from the most basic conversations regarding personal matters. John inquired a few times in the beginning about Sherlock's sexuality, but was easily put off. Sherlock had deduced John's latent bisexuality, but he'd kept it to himself--at first because he didn't want to drive John away, then later because Irene had spooked him, then Moriarty came along and their time ran out.

Now, here they are in a familiar situation—John removing Sherlock's stitches—but engaging in an unfamiliar discussion, something deeply personal, (euphemistically, of course): whether they prefer a cock up their arse to their cock up someone else's.

"I knew you were a bottom," Sherlock says _sotto voce._

"Really? And how did you come by that conclusion, huh?" John asks with the air of someone chronically prone to indulging brilliant consulting detectives.

"I wasn't entirely sure until last night. You're incredibly responsive to even the smallest touch, and I would imagine that bottoming gives you more powerful orgasms. Obviously, then, you would enjoy bottoming."

"If it's just orgasms, then everyone should want to bottom, don't you think?" John asks.

 _Snick_.

"Not just the orgasms."

A tug. _Plink_.

Sherlock is silent for a moment, contemplating John bent over the table, the image crowding into his mind and blotting out his thoughts.

"Well, go on then," John says. "I know you're dying to show off. What else?"

Sherlock pushes the frankly quite pornographic image to the side of his mind and gathers his thoughts.

"Anal sex requires preparation. You've spent your life as a heterosexual male. Your appalling luck with women notwithstanding, you are a very considerate lover in bed, although more out of insecurity than selflessness. If you make it pleasurable for her, she'll keep having sex with you. Basic reward-based behavioral modification."

"You've just insulted me about four times," John says, his sarcasm lacking the bite Sherlock recalls from eighteen months ago.

"Now that you're with a man, however, you feel comfortable enough to be yourself. After all, men are much easier to please than are women. You like the idea of being taken care of, someone expending the time and energy to prepare you, in the same way you spent time and energy pleasing your female lovers and making sure they achieved at least one orgasm before, as they say, getting to the main act. You feel you deserve the attention after all those years of repression. You like bottoming because it means you don't have to do the work and can just lie back and enjoy it. Am I right?" Sherlock finishes, looking up at John eagerly, his desire forgotten, subsumed to the thrill of a deduction flawlessly achieved and perfectly delivered.

John stares at Sherlock with that same slack-mouthed wide-eyed wonder that Sherlock remembers, and it feels like their first cases all over again. Sherlock's heartbeat speeds up as he waits for _amazing_ and _brilliant_ to tumble out of John's mouth. Instead, John makes a small noise of assent.

"I hadn't realized that's why I liked it so much until you said just now," John says, shaking his head, his eyes sparkling dark blue with admiration, reminding Sherlock of the Mediterranean under a blinding white sun. He sounds almost like he's talking to himself, his voice just barely above a murmur. "That must be why Gerald prefers it, too. Having to be in charge of everyone all the time. Amazing, Sherlock, truly. Brilliant, as always, but, of course you know that."

He offers a dazzling grin to Sherlock, the one that always makes Sherlock's heart stutter. The one he gives when he lets himself be momentarily happy, and John rarely lets himself be happy. _He's happy_ , Sherlock thinks, the knowledge suddenly a heavy weight in his chest. _I left behind an angry, bitter man and returned to find a happy, open one and I had nothing to do with it_.

Then something John said bursts to the front of Sherlock's awareness. "What did you mean about Gerald being in charge all the time?"

"Oh, nothing, just—always being the one caring for others. You know, since he's a therapist?"

"You're lying," Sherlock says.

"I'm not, honestly," John says, pulling back to favor Sherlock with a smile that verges on smug. No, not _smug_. John has a _secret_ , something he knows will throw Sherlock off.

Sherlock lifts his head from his arms and looks John in the eye. "What are you hiding?"

"Oh, no," John says, wagging the hemostat at Sherlock. _Now_ , he definitely looks smug. "I'm not telling you. I'm not giving it all up that easy."

"Only a child waves secrets under other people's noses, John, and they do it because it makes them feel _special_ to know something other people don't. Frankly, that kind of behavior in an adult is pathetic." Sherlock tries to paint each word with scorn, but John is—as usual—unaffected by Sherlock's disdain, having early on developed an immunity to it.

"Yes, well, only another child gets in a strop because the first one won't share the secret," John says, raising his eyebrows.

Sherlock is torn between wanting to drag the secret out of John and wanting to kiss him. How does John manage to surprise him, even after all this time? When Sherlock imagined John seeking solace after his death (which he tried not to) it was in the arms of a _woman_ , a plump rosy-cheeked English rose. He never imagined—well, he did _imagine_ John with a man, but it was Sherlock himself and not This Gerald Person.

"You know, I can just have Mycroft look into him," Sherlock says, an empty threat considering the file currently sitting on his phone. Of course, he didn't have to _ask_ Mycroft to investigate Gerald—that eventuality was put into place the moment Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Bart's. Mycroft had to vet every person who had more than a casual interaction with John in case Moriarty's people tried to get to him.

"Oh, I know you can, if you haven't already. But Mycroft won't be able to give you any personal insight into Gerald, will he? He's not been _sleeping with_ Gerald, has he?"

John tilts his head and looks down at Sherlock and then his lips spread into a wide grin so big, Sherlock can see his back molars.

"Let's make a deal," John says, the words causing the hair on the back of Sherlock's neck to lift. "For every smoothie you drink, I'll answer one question about Gerald and me, no matter how personal."

"That's not fair!" Sherlock says, throwing his hands out in distress. "For every answer, I would have a dozen more questions!"

John shrugs, utterly unrepentant. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth. He takes a deep breath and calms himself.

"Counteroffer. For each smoothie, I get one question and a _follow-up_ question for clarification."

"Drink _all_ of it, and you can have your second question, but it has to pertain to the first."

"I accept your terms, but I'm still having Mycroft investigate him." Sherlock needs an alibi in case John catches him reading the file about Gerald.

"Oh, I don't doubt you already have," John says, and then bends back to his task.

"I want my question for the smoothie I just had," Sherlock says.

"Uhn-uh. No way. You got the answer to half a dozen questions _and_ two chocolate biscuits for that smoothie. You're daft if you think I'm going to give away anything else. For the record, though," John says, ducking his head to look into Sherlock's eyes. "I'm not keeping secrets because I don't trust you."

"Hm," Sherlock grumbles.

"I'll use whatever leverage I have, no matter how humiliating, to see your health restored. If you weren't so damn stubborn, I wouldn't have to. Of course, it's not as much fun that way, is it?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but stays silent, an answer in itself.

"I'm so glad you're back," John says. He clears his throat, his eyes blinking rapidly, before setting the scissors and hemostat down on the table. "A minute, just—" he says and then launches himself towards the loo.

Sherlock doesn't change position, even though he longs to pace the sitting room floor. John is brilliant! He's given Sherlock a mystery, the very thing he needs to step back into the skin he left behind—Sherlock Holmes, World's Only Consulting Detective. Sherlock decides not to read the brief Mycroft emailed him. No, Sherlock is going at this the old-fashioned way.

By the time John returns from the loo (slightly red eyes, fond smile) Sherlock's grin has disappeared, but only just. Sherlock has already retreated to his mind palace to begin untangling the knot of questions he has about Gerald and John.

"No more pain meds," Sherlock says. "Just the ibuprofen." He doesn't want to be dulled by the narcotics. He needs his full faculties to crack the puzzle of This Gerald Person and his relationship to _(my)_ John.

"Oh, god," John says, narrowing his eyes. "You're plotting. I can see it in your eyes."

"Of course, I am!" Sherlock says. "Now get on with it. I need to think and I can't do it with you hovering over me."

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta readers, Jenn and Katie. They are indispensable and truly the best beta readers/editors/spell and grammar checkers/ego boosters/and doubt soothers in the world. Without them, I would have abandoned this in despair several weeks ago!


End file.
